


pure as the driven snow

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2015: Siblings, Husbands, Lovely Ladies, and Other Miscreants [21]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Blasphemy, Feminization, Lolita Sebastian, M/M, Photographer Chris, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is hired to photograph the Stan family--notorious for being hyperconservative, religious fanatics--for a holiday spread in <i>Vanity Fair</i> magazine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pure as the driven snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exaggerated_Specificity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exaggerated_Specificity/gifts).



> day twenty-one | evergreen

The Stans were the stuff of overwrought, religious-fevered fairytales.

Douglas Stan had shown up on the scene with a winsome, bleach white smile and a seemingly endless supply of wisdom about how to raise a family in the morally bankrupt wasteland known as the United States of America. He’d written book after book over the last seven years, filled to the brim with quotable thoughts on everything from breastfeeding to children’s book reading lists to vaccines to premarital sex to homosexuality. He never minced words, never looked at the bad people as anything but minions of Satan, and he’d won over desperate people struggling to find a religion and a foundation upon which to build their lives by the truckload.

Doug Stan, at the close of this fiscal year, will officially be a billionaire.

 _Vanity Fair_ had called Chris while he was walking through an airport in Jakarta, had all but insisted that he free up his schedule to do a twenty-page spread on the Stan family for this year’s holiday issue. And though Valerie had chosen her words carefully, Chris can tell that the Stan family doesn’t really understand why _Vanity Fair_ magazine has such an interest in them.

And Chris, ever since he had been mailed a copy of _How to Be a Blue Boy in a Pink World_ from his nosy, homophobic aunt, he has loathed Douglas Stan and his entire picture-perfect family.

“I’ll do it,” he’d said before hanging up his phone and slotting in line for customs.

That was two months ago.

Being here, now, in the middle of the Stan family mansion in Atheron, outside of San Francisco, in what is officially the most expensive zip code in America, he’s regretting basing his decision on malice. 

Doug walks down the left side of the Imperial staircase with an entourage in tow; several men in suits and dark sunglasses walking between him and what Chris recognizes to be his family: his wife, daughter, and two sons.

“Doug Stan,” he says to Scarlett, the unfortunate soul who will be interviewing Doug for the spread, and her tight, red-mouthed smile as she shakes his hand brings Chris more than a tiny bit of joy. He can’t wait for Doug to find out that Scarlett is a very vocal atheist.

“Scarlett,” she intones in that crackling, husky voice of hers. She takes a step back and nods over to Chris who figures it’s now his turn to step up. His smile feels like more of a grimace as he shakes Doug’s soft, limp hand and stares into his megawatt grin that looks more vapid than any celebutante he’s ever met.

“Chris,” he says with a quick nod, making sure to squeeze Doug’s hand firmly before letting go. He reaches down for the camera around his neck, gripping it just to feel anchored when all he really wants to do is get back in the stretch Hummer that had brought him here and get the fuck back to the city and wash the slime off.

“Nice to meet y’all, nice to meet y’all,” Doug beams, stepping to one side and motioning for the line of people Chris knows to be his family to come up. “This is my wife, Julie. The tall one’s my boy Nathan, the princess with the bundle of joy is Isabelle and her baby boy Jeremiah, and the little one’s Sebastian.”

“Hi,” they all chorus together before Julie turns on her smile like a light’s been flipped, her teeth even bigger and whiter than her husband’s.

“ _So_ glad y’all could make it,” she says in the most dramatic Southern belle accent Chris has ever heard in real life. “We’re real honored to be doin’ this. Real honored.”

“This is going to be a packed day,” Scarlett tells them, her voice somehow pitched even lower, seemingly as a reaction to the bright bubbly squeak from Julie Stan. “We’re going to get you guys ready, and then we’ll head out to Honey Bear Trees to photograph you choosing your Christmas tree. After that--”

Chris tunes her out so he doesn’t have to be reminded of all the time he’s spending with these people today, and he decides instead to examine the Stans and check for any deformities not yet fixed by surgery that he’ll have to avoid when photographing them later.

Julie is attractive in a realtor billboard ad kind of way, her smile as bright as her eyes are empty, her clothes boring and monotone and modest. Nathan looks like his father’s twin, like someone photoshopped the lines from Doug’s face and stuck him in a navy blue sweater instead of the identical burgundy one Doug is wearing. Isabelle is gorgeous, her breasts enormous (presumably full of milk), her curves deep and tight, and the baby in her arms has eyes the same shade of blue as hers. And lastly, Sebastian--

Sebastian is staring right at him, like Chris is the one talking, like he’s the one to focus on here, his shirt soft and grey and falling off one shoulder like they’d just plucked him from ballet class, the hem of it cropped to show off a pale flash of tummy. His hair is dark and tucked behind his ears, his eyes blue as the Arctic under dark lashes, his mouth smalled into a baby pink pout like he’s somehow younger, more untouched than his fourteen years might suggest.

Chris realizes their eyes are locked when Sebastian blinks, an unreal fall of black over icy blue, and that pink mouth twists into a knowing little smile. He feels ensnared, like he’s promised something, like he’d just handed over the keys to something very important before he could even consider saying no.

“--this way,” Scarlett finishes, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on Julie’s back and start them toward the makeup and hair trailer that is parked outside next to wardrobe. 

“Do I get to wear makeup?” Sebastian asks Scarlett, and there must be something his expression that she likes, because she grins at him just as his mother interrupts.

“ _No_ , you don’t, Sebastian. What did we talk about? You were going to _stop_ saying all those things to upset your father and be a good boy,” Julie scolds as Nathan and Isabelle file on past, ignoring the whole conversation. “Now, what do you say?”

“Sorry, Mom,” he sighs, folding his arms over his thin chest, though he looks absolutely anything but contrite.

Julie raises her eyebrows.

“And?”

“And… I’ll be good,” Sebastian finishes before biting hard at the inside of his flushed cheek. Julie keeps staring, doesn’t so much as blink.

“A good _what_?” she asks.

“A good _boy_ ,” Sebastian replies, brimming with petulance, his jaw so tight that Chris can hear his teeth grind.

“That’s my handsome little man,” Julie chirps, beaming at him before pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Come along. Let’s go fix your hair.”

“I like my hair,” Sebastian mumbles, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of dark behind his ear. Scarlett places a gentle hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, stopping him from following his mother for just a few seconds as she leans down to whisper close to his ear, giving him a wink before sending him on his way. He’s practically skipping as he hurries to catch up.

Chris manages to tear his eyes away from the two-dollop sweetdrops of Sebastian’s ass jiggled high and tight with each joyful skip-skip-skip.

“What did you say to him?” he manages to ask in a bit of a daze, scenting the air like he swears he can still smell him, a pinkened powder and the faint salt of sin.

“I told him I’d text Lexie and make sure she gives him some blush and a pale pink mouth, if he wants,” she says, smirking down at her phone that she’s tapping a message on. “I think I’m rooting for that kid already.”

“Hm,” is all Chris says in return, tongue dragging over his bottom lip and catching on the softened scruff of his beard.

 

The twenty minute ride to the Christmas tree farm is just as awkward as one might imagine, and Chris finds himself pressed up against young Sebastian in the very backest of back seats, the boy practically in his lap because of all the people piled into the vehicle.

He’s wearing what looks like a dandy boy’s holiday outfit, a deep emerald velvet jacket over a ruffled scarlet top that Julie had a fit over for half an hour before finally giving in, as long as Sebastian buttoned up his jacket before the shoot started. His pants are secretly leggings, tight, clinging things that the whole wardrobe department had rallied to get the boy into, like he’d gotten them all wrapped around his delicate little finger before either Doug or Julie could interfere. 

He smells like spun sugar, like fairy floss that melts away on a heated tongue, and the sweet neglect of his thigh is pressing along Chris’s lap like he’s absently trying to climb up, one impatient shift on the seat at a time.

“Do you think my sister’s hot?” the boy asks, sudden and out of the blue, turning those big, all-seeing eyes onto Chris and not letting him escape.

Chris stutters and stammers, not paying a single bit of attention to the words the boy’s saying because he’s caught up on the fact that his mouth looks like Easter Sunday, a pink so whisper-pale and fragile that all Chris can think about is how sacred Doug Stan considers virginity and whether or not he realizes that his littlest son’s mouth is an innocence to be taken.

“Your… your sister?” Chris finally replies, his conversation skills apparently flying out the window when faced with a child half his age. Sebastian only watches him, his face smooth and solemn, eyes as round as moons in the low light of the car.

“Isabelle? Would you fuck her?” He almost sounds bored, like the answer is a given. When he moves this time, the back of his knee hooks over Chris’s thigh, the shiny patent leather of his shoe grazing Chris’s shin.

“I…” Chris manages, glancing around to see if anyone else is hearing this only to find that the rest of the car is either in deep discussion or recording the words being said. He thanks a god he doesn’t believe in for his random luck and looks back down at Sebastian’s expectant little face. “No. No, I really wouldn’t.”

Sebastian doesn’t blink, doesn’t stop searching Chris’s eyes.

“Not even if she wasn’t married? Or didn’t have that brat?”

“Not even then,” Chris says, confident in his answer this time, having found his footing. He lets Sebastian search his face for lies, forcing his hands to stay very decidedly away from Sebastian’s velveteen, carelessly spread thighs.

Sebastian’s painted pink mouth purses.

“Why not?”

Chris shrugs, fussing with his camera again, lowering his eyes to do so.

“Not really my type.”

Sebastian makes a soft hum. Chris glances up at him through his lashes.

“Do you like blondes?” the boy asks.

“I like boys,” Chris tells him, quiet now. He feels it when their eyes lock again, and the flash of hunger that brightens in Sebastian’s eyes is so vivid that it nearly makes Chris shiver.

“Do you like my pants?” Sebastian says now, leaning back against the door in a languid sprawl, his leg hiked up higher on Chris’s lap, nearly grazing his dick.

Chris grips the camera, hard.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough. “Sure.”

“Feel them,” Sebastian replies, his songbird voice dropping to nearly a purr. “They’re soft.”

Chris hesitates, breath held between them while he considers his options. He spares one more glance up to the rest of their party before returning all of his attention to Sebastian, to the supine drape of his decadent little body. He lifts a hand that had been so good before from the seat and rests it on the delicate bones of Sebastian’s ankle, his thumb overlapping his fingers with an alarming lack of effort around the width of it.

“Men used to write sonnets about how beautiful women’s ankles were,” Sebastian says with a sigh, his eyes lazing as he gazes up at Chris. “Do you think they’d write about me? If they knew how lovely mine are?”

_I think you could have the entire world on its knees for you before breakfast, even on your worst day._

“Silk and velvet,” is what he says instead, letting his fingers spread out to run up the slim curve of Sebastian’s shin, over the secret notch of his kneecap. “Pretty decadent for the son of a preacher.”

“The son of a man who sucks the good Lord’s cock for a living,” Sebastian replies, so snide that it nearly breaks the spell he’s managed to weave in their little secret world in the backseat of this ridiculous vehicle that slows to a stop at the tree farm.

“If those are my vices,” the boy continues, arching his foot so that the warm inside of his thigh tightens under Chris’s ever-seeking hand, “then I’m the saint of this family.”

“--and bless us, O Lord, and carry us through this day of celebration and worship in Your holy name. We live to serve you and only you, Christ our Lord. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen,” Doug finishes from the front seat. Chris holds back a groan as he tightens his hand on Sebastian’s unworshiped inner thigh, wishing it was his teeth digging into the satin skin under velvet instead of his fingernails that feel like claws with the hunger coursing through him.

“Amen,” Sebastian whispers.

 

The photoshoot begins as soon as they strike out through the farm in search of their perfect Christmas tree. This had been Doug’s idea, to capture the family on its alleged favorite Christmas past time of picking out the perfect tree.

Doug educates them all on the use of the Christmas tree, breaking out Bible verses that Scarlett picks apart with the accuracy of a surgeon and an intellectual until Doug is stammering and flustered and snatching his wife’s hand to drag her along, turning his attention to finding a tree instead of sermoning.

Sebastian brings up the rear of the group, scuffing up his shiny shoes with grit and gravel as he drags along behind them. Chris maintains his focus even though he can still feel the ghost of heated velvet under his fingers, taking shot after shot of the Stans pointing up at trees and debating between themselves about which one to pick.

Chris sneaks in little photos for himself, tiny indulgences that come in the form of Sebastian’s finespun fingers slipping along the prickly-soft needles of a blue spruce, the faintest scraps of a scarlet red nailpolish left on the bitten-back moons of his nails; of Sebastian’s starbright-blue eyes lifted up to the matching sky and past the trees like he’s seeking a savior, desperate for wings to bring him up and away from the family who doesn’t seem to notice his lack of participation, or maybe they just don’t care.

Chris cares enough for all of them. The thirty-odd photographs of Sebastian tucked in among the others prove it.

 

There’s a costume change when they get back to the mansion, more casual clothes for everyone and a nap for the baby. The Christmas decorations are already out, brand new and untouched by any smudges or bits of dust, shiny-new and clean like the Stans’ souls. 

“Joy to the World” marks the beginning of the second photoshoot of the day, and Chris catches a shot of Doug Stan pressing a frightfully passionless kiss to his wife’s mauve lips before he lifts up the first shiny red ball from the box, holding it up high like it’s the baby Jesus himself and passing it to his son Nathan who is waiting on the ladder above.

“Shouldn’t we do lights first?” Sebastian asks, his voice flat and nothing like the kitten-softness Chris was given in the back seat. Every single person present stops and turns to stare at him. Doug is practically sneering, but even he finally gives a sigh that drags his shoulders down a little.

“You’re right,” Doug mumbles. “Julie, get the help in here. We are _not_ hanging the lights.”

Chris makes sure to get photos of that, too.

 

“Why does she get to be the Virgin Mary?” Sebastian asks, hands on his dollish hips, the sweet pink lipstick now scraped off by pearly-white, gnashing teeth, leaving a deeper shade that calls to mind hard pressed fingers on fresh-driven snow white flesh and of the pried-apart vestal tightness Chris can almost taste when he sees how suck-deep pink Sebastian’s mouth is. “She’s not a virgin. She got knocked up the old-fashioned way.”

The entire family gasps, and Scarlett does her best to hide her snort inside of a cough. Chris can only stare, composing lines of poetry that he wants to lick out on Sebastian’s smooth belly, in the heat on the innermost depths of his thighs.

“She did not get--” Julie starts, her voice shrill as a scrape, but it drops away when she remembers herself. “Your sister is engaged to be married, Sebastian. She is to be someone’s bride.”

“Yeah, well,” Sebastian replies, raising delicately-groomed eyebrows, “right now, she’s a harlot with a bastard child, and _I_ want to be the Virgin Mary.”

Isabelle, Chris realizes when he spares her a glance, is beet-red and has her head lifted high, a true martyr.

“You can’t be the Virgin Mary, you psycho little queer,” Nathan hisses, like Scarlett with her voice-recording iPhone aren’t right beside him. “You’re a _dude._ ”

Sebastian blinks at his brother, his eyes round and blank as painted porcelain.

“Trust me,” Sebastian says, calm and mysterious as any goddess worthy of worship, “I’m not a ‘dude.’ And I want to be Mary. I want to feel the Lord moving inside of me.”

Three different people scramble for Sebastian then, and Doug almost reaches him, but Chris creates a one-man blockade around his little doll, trying not to let on how thoroughly he will rip apart anyone who dares to touch Sebastian.

“We have forty-five minutes to finish this shoot. Why don’t you all go into the trailer and get into your costumes? Scarlett, will you--”

“On it,” she says with a smirk, herding the rest of the family out and leaving him with Sebastian who is staring up at him, sweet and docile as a girl, like he would be all melt and boneless if Chris dared to reach for him.

“What do they want you to be?” Chris asks him, and it’s nothing but his own instincts that drive him to kneel in front of Sebastian so their heights are closer and he’s not staring down at him. Sebastian is made to be seen from below, like all cherished things.

“An angel,” Sebastian says, flippant and pout-mouthed. He tickles his fingers into Chris’s beard, scritching at the skin underneath, dragging up goosebumps and hard nipples and a shiver from Chris’s cock. “Do you think I would make a good angel?”

“I think maybe I’d be the praying type, if you were the one who answered prayers,” Chris murmurs, one side of his mouth pulling up as Sebastian’s schoolyard fingers trip over his bottom lip. 

“I’d wear a little white slip and watch over you,” Sebastian whispers, taking a step closer until Chris’s throat is nearly pressed to his chest. He cups Chris’s face as their eyes dig into each other, his fingers soft enough to deliver a benediction, or an execution. 

“Go get all dolled up for me, and I promise I’ll take some pictures of just you in your angel costume afterwards.” Chris keeps his hands to himself because if he doesn’t he won’t stop until he’s sinking his fingers into Sebastian’s warm pink insides, and the smile on Sebastian’s face is almost innocent. Almost.

“Swear it to me,” Sebastian says. He searches Chris’s eyes, suddenly serious. “You have to swear.”

“I swear,” Chris tells him.

“Do better,” Sebastian says.

Chris sinks back deeper onto his haunches, his whole body relaxed into this submission.

“Tell me how,” he says.

“Touch my tongue with your tongue,” Sebastian murmurs just before his icing-pink mouth parts, his tongue slipping out, practically dripping with spit, his sweet breath rushing over Chris’s face. Chris leans in with a smile, his own tongue sliding out of his mouth and licking at Sebastian’s, trading saliva with him in a few, dessert-greedy laps before he pulls back.

Sebastian swallows audibly, a gulp of his pale baby throat and he licks his lips, leaving them shiny as the inside of a shell. He dashes off like hide-and-seek, his little shoes clicking on the imported marble floor. 

Chris closes his eyes, swishing babydoll spit over his tongue and picturing the tiny bubbles it made as it clung to Sebastian’s tongue like come before he tasted it. He tastes sweet like the inside of a peach, like cake for breakfast, like sugar licked from fingers.

His little angel tastes like a sin.

 

It’s blasphemous, the picture they make. 

Isabelle is the virginal child-bride to her brother’s strong silent Joseph, and they’re both knelt and bowed in front of Isabelle’s wriggling, crackle-crying infant boy standing in for the baby Jesus, most of him tucked up tight in a cashmere blanket in an antique wicker bassinet, just like the little baby Jesus was.

Doug, Julie, and Doug’s assistant Ethan are playing the part of the wise men, all of them holding out extravagant gifts and playing their parts like they’re roles of a lifetime, and Chris realizes, a little alarmed, that the tears in Julie’s eyes are real.

Sebastian, the ingenue, the honey-thighed dream in a white robe so thin Chris can see right through it, is the starlet of the whole affair, standing over the manger scene with a benevolent, serene smile, his wings unfurled and softly feathered as they curve around his narrow shoulders, a gold halo suspended over his dark, good-boy curls, his sapphire-in-the-dark eyes trained on the camera, on Chris.

It’s so disturbing, so sacrilegious, the way they’re all posed and ready to be captured in the dramatically iconic scene for millions of readers, seemingly unaware of the way such an image will be viewed. Chris almost feels sorry for them as he takes photo after photo, but at one point the milky kiss of Sebastian’s thighs part under that ghostly slip, backlit as he is by the Star of Bethlehem, and Chris can think of nothing else for the next twenty minutes.

 

He is dragged up to Sebastian’s room under the guise of being shown some photography project Sebastian did in school last year in the eighth grade, and sound of the lock on the now closed door is like a sigh. 

He stands over Sebastian, cock straining against his jeans, mouth wet with the need to bite and chew and kiss and suck loose. He grips his camera and waits for whatever his doll wants.

“You promised,” Sebastian says softly after discarding his wings and halo by the door, crawling up onto his bed like a grade-school slip of a boy, lounging back against his pillows and letting his little robe fall open as he spreads his kitten-cream thighs. 

Chris takes photos like breathing, capturing every possible slip of skin, every single baby-dimpled curve of Sebastian’s body, wishing he could immortalize the sugary pink smell wafting off his skin in just the same way, just for himself.

“Turn over,” Chris breathes, holding onto an inhaled drag of air as Sebastian obeys like a lover, twisting his starglow body and revealing the round, forbidden curve of his barely teenaged ass. He gets his knees up under him and lifts up into a spread-thighed, deep arch of delicate boy.

He’s flushed all over, the heat staining the insides of his thighs as Chris drops his camera to the carpet and crawls up on the bed after his religion, licking his lips and tucking his face in between Sebastian’s legs to lick out a fervent, bruise-kissed love note to that untouched skin. 

Sebastian quakes above him, his secret playground thighs quivering against Chris’s bearded cheeks as he sucks on them one at a time, tonguing at the inner crease where his thighs meet heaven. He gets his hands on him and pries his needy legs open even more, nuzzling his way over Sebastian’s peach-soft, tight little balls and up over the almost girlish curve of his taint, so pretty and pink and begging to be sucked on.

Chris pries his cheeks apart and sits back with a truly overcome sigh, taking in the full view of the tight little rose of his asshole, shivering for the attention and winking at Chris like it’s flirting.

“I could’ve been the Virgin Mary,” Sebastian whispers against his pillow, his blush-flushed knees digging into his white cotton bedsheets. “See?”

“Oh, I see,” Chris breathes, running his thumbs up between Sebastian’s tiny crack just to watch him shiver hard, to watch that flesh jiggle and to hear Sebastian gasp. He uses the tips of his thumbs to pluck at the warm, neglected wrinkles of Sebastian’s hole, trying to tease it into opening up for him a little bit more. “Sweet baby, God, I see you.”

Sebastian sobs when Chris dives in and kisses him all pretty and French on his asshole, his tongue wiggling wet and greedy to massage at him, to beg him open, just a little. When Sebastian gasps, there’s a shiver and the tiniest give, and Chris’s tongue dips in hard, wriggling against the resistance and finally licking at his insides, finally tasting pink.

He’s got one hand covering one whole cheek and part of the back of Sebastian’s thigh, keeping him yanked open slut-wide so he can eat him out, and his other hand is wrapped around to brace on the tiny soft of Sebastian’s belly, loving every gasp, every ragged drag of air, every shift and squirm as Sebastian tries to ride back on Chris’s tongue.

It’s while he’s got Sebastian soft and puffy-loose against his lips, while he’s suck-suck-sucking at his hole and licking away at the bittersweet boy-tang of his ass that he realizes with a painful lurch that he hasn’t kissed Sebastian yet, not really. Not properly.

He flips him over, catching him before he bounces on the bed and lifting him up to help him sprawl out against his pillows, his angelic dress caught up under his arms, his eyes wild and seeking before Chris leans in and kisses him, finally kisses him. Sebastian sighs, sweetly content and warm while Chris feeds him the taste of his own virginal insides, while he gets a big, firm hand down between Sebastian’s legs and forces his thighs apart again. 

He brings his fingers up between their mouths, petting at Sebastian’s soaked little tongue, gathering up spit that Sebastian gives him in gathered and dripped out puddles right on his fingers, like the good little thing he is.

“Good boy,” Chris whispers against his lips while Sebastian tenses and shakes as he rubs wet at his asshole, petting at it with tiny licks of his fingers before he sinks right in, a knife into butter, a middle finger lost in the heated pink heaven Sebastian keeps tucked away secret inside of him.

“G-Good girl,” Sebastian corrects him on a gasp, his peaches and cream thighs warm where they plush on either side of Chris’s hand, trying to seduce him further in, more in, deeper, harder. Chris lets Sebastian nurse on the slippery tip of his tongue while he watches him from under heavy lashes and feeds him another finger, middle and ring locked inside, keys to the kingdom.

“Good girl,” Chris praises, saying it just right because Sebastian opens like a relieved door, relaxing back against the pillows and letting his thighs fall open like a third date.

“Fuck me like a girl,” he breathes, baring down on Chris’s rubbing-digging fingers. His fingers are tripping over Chris’s belt, his zipper, working to get him out. “Fuck me like I’m your girl.”

Chris’s fingers squish and pluck in and out past Sebastian’s stretched rim, always diving back in a little deeper, just a tiny bit faster, curling up and in to make Sebastian shiver, a trembling wish-come-true who is taking three fingers now, who is pushing down on them and not minding the embarrassing sounds his body is making as Chris fingerfucks him rough, begging his insides to peek out so he can rub and play with them, with his tiny, sweet little rosebud.

His rhythm falters when Sebastian finally gets a hand in his jeans and pulls him out, holding onto him like he’s got his delicate fingers around Chris’s heart. When Sebastian starts to tug at him, irregular and dry like a first time, Chris can only curl up tight around his boy, his girl, his angel, can only tuck his face into the spot in his hair still indented from the halo and breathe.

He rubs at Sebastian’s insides and Sebastian pulls at his outsides, and they come together in a shaking clash of clacking teeth and breathless words and creamy warmth.

He keeps his fingers tucked inside Sebastian’s sweet song of a body, feeling the dying notes of his broken-open theme play out in shivery, heartbeat-pulses of unseeable flesh. Sebastian keeps stroking him, pulling and pushing until it hurts, until Chris hisses out pleas for him to stop, but Sebastian only grins where he’s biting into Chris’s bottom lip, his little vampire doll, and stares straight up into his eyes while he rubs the pad of his number-two pencil-smooth finger round and around Chris’s dilated slit.

 

“Daddy,” Sebastian says, clean as an innocent and wide-eyed as a good boy, as a preacher’s son, “I want to take photography lessons.”

Doug looks from his little son to Chris who is standing a foot taller and twice as old next to him, his fingers still smelling like boy-pink, his tongue heavy from licking down every drop of everything Sebastian wanted to give him. Chris gives him a sheepish smile and a shrug, hand going to the camera around his neck, loaded with pictures of a hidden love story.

“Son,” Doug says to Chris, reaching up to clasp a hand on his shoulder and squeeze, man-to-man. “How do you feel about making some extra cash?”

**Author's Note:**

> [rebloggable link here.](http://dollylux.tumblr.com/post/135693105956/dollyluxs-fic-advent-calendar-2015-siblings)


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